Waltzing Matilda: No Man Left Behind
by katbybee
Summary: A/U-WW2 An American Lt. barely survives when his bomber is shot down. His crewmate vows to find him, again, no matter the cost. Will they ever truly see home again? War Themes/Strong Language/Violence. My tribute to those who never made it home, in body...or in spirit. I loved you anyway, Dad. RIP. Don't Own, No Cash. See A/N RE: Inspiration for story. R/R.
1. Hellfire and the Braniac

**Chapter One-Hellfire and the Brainiac**

 **Mike Stoker's Journal**

12 Mar 42

Don't let anybody fool you. Mail from home is great. But it also slams you right in the gut. It makes you feel so bad, because you're stuck thousands of miles away from home, smack in the middle of mud, blood, and bombs. In my case, the mud's not as bad, because the damned Army Corps of Engineers finally got our whole airfield drained and evened out. It didn't do a damned thing for the bugs, though. I'm from Trenton, _and_ an Army brat, for crap's sake! What do I know from bugs…except for roaches? _Them_ , I know! Who would have expected marshes and bugs in Wales?!

I decided to keep this journal in case something happens to me, so maybe somebody will get it back to my folks someday. To that end, I copied all my important information on the inside of the front cover, but I'll cover the basics again, just in case the cover rips off. I have my dog tags, of course, so, no need to copy down that info. Here goes:

Name: Lt. Michael J. Stoker, Flight Engineer, U. S. Army Air Corps

Current Duty Station: Gadwick-Almand Airfield, Wales (aka "Gawd-Awful Field)

Born: Trenton, NJ 02 Feb 21, age 21

Enlistment Date: 02 Feb 38, Ft. Roberts, NJ

Graduate, Army Engineering School; Army Engineering Flight School

Parents: Col. James M. and Barbara L. Stoker

Siblings: One sister, Dianne L. Stoker, age 15

I have wanted to be a pilot for as long as I can remember, but it turns out the Army won't let me, because my vision isn't perfect. You have to have 20/20 in both eyes. I am 20/40 in my left, thanks to an old baseball injury I'd forgotten all about. I got knocked in the head in sixth grade. But I have gotten to train as a Flight Engineer on a B-17, and that has been amazing. The one thing I've learned out here though is not to get close to anyone, because the life expectancy isn't too good. We're losing a lot of crews every day, and already our crew has gone through three gunners and two pilots; and we've only been here three weeks!

The only exception to my rule is a guy we all call ""Hellfire Hank." Captain Hank Stanley is almost too tall for duty in a bomber-at 6'3" he beats me by 2" and he's skinny as hell. He's older than most of us, and apparently came up the hard way. Why the hell he chose bombers, I'll never know, but he is the best damned bombardier I have ever seen. His aim is perfect! He has nerves of steel, and I have yet to see him miss any target he's aimed at. He's also kept the crew together when we've been shot to hell, and had to limp back home. We've gotten pretty close, seeing as we've spent a lot of long hours with not a lot to do in the belly of _Emily Jean_ , our baby. He has a wife waiting back home. Lucky guy!

On our last run, he got real serious. He knows the odds, and they're stacking up against both of us. We promised each other that we would never leave the other behind if we could help it—and I showed him where I keep this journal, under my flight jacket, or in my footlocker, just in case. We chatted about lighter things after that, including our ages, him 34, and me 21. I saw the expected look of surprise flash into his eyes; even as he grinned, and promised to introduce me to his little sister after we got home.

After we landed, and once the Flight Surgeon had cleared us; Hank showed me his sister's picture. He's right—she is a looker! I smiled, and he asked the question everybody asks me once they know I'm only 21. "How'd you get to be a Flight Engineer so young?" Usually I hedge the question, but for some reason, I trust Hank. "Simple. I graduated at 16, talked my parents into letting me enlist at 17. My dad is career Army, so he understands. Ma, not so much. I pulled off boot camp, and double training schedules, and graduated from both Army Engineering and Flight Engineering Schools, all in a year and a half." Hank stared at me for a long moment before he let out a low whistle.

"You must be some kinda frappin' Einstein!"

"No," I told him, seriously. "Just impatient to get to where I wanna be!"

He shook his head, looking around at the controlled chaos around us. "This what you had in mind, Braniac?"

"Well," I grinned at the man who was rapidly becoming my best friend, "no, not _exactly_!"

"Come on kid, let's go get cleaned up, and get some chow."

And suddenly, with Hellfire Hank at my side, I felt invincible. I was on top of the world as we made our way across God-Awful Airfield. Nothing could bring me down!

Hank grinned at my obvious attitude. We both stood a little straighter, walked a little taller that day.

I know now, if I'm ever in trouble, Hellfire will find me. He will never leave me behind. He promised.

Good night.

18 March 42

Nothing to report…It has turned cold and boring. There seems to be a lull in the action, and we are all getting antsy. I have heard rumors things are heating up in the Pacific Theater. That can't be good. Probably won't write much until there is something to report. Did you know they call soccer "football" over here, and their version of football is called "rugby?" It's rough as hell, but we all got into the game pretty quickly. I found out real quick Hank is _fast_ , and a lot stronger than he looks! He mowed some of those English guys over so quick, it was hilarious! I still wouldn't wanna piss some of them off, though.

Good night.

22 March 42

One milk run is on for tonight. Just playing escort for some new fighter planes, Should be real easy, up the coast and back… No problem for the best crew in the business…Hellfire Hank won't even have to lift a finger tonight—the lucky bastard!

See you soon!

 **Hank's POV**

10 April 42

Midlands Army Hospital, County Cork, Ireland

And nobody can tell me fate isn't a bitch with a sick sense of humor, because the whole world went to Hell on our very next mission. A milk run…a goddamned milk run!

Feels weird writing in another man's journal, but I sorta feel like it's what he would want me to do, since he ain't here right now, to do it. Don't ask me why I grabbed this damned thing off his flight desk before I bailed. I couldn't believe he forgot it…or maybe he knew…knew I'd grab it. I will never forget the look on the kid's face when we locked eyes, just before _Emily Jean_ disintegrated around us. His eyes were so…old, and yet confident, somehow…he said, "See ya,"Hellfire, remember, you promised!" and he was gone…he just dropped away.

I never did see what hit us. It could have been a bomb or machine-gun fire, or even another plane. There were so many damned planes all over us at the time, we didn't have a chance in hell… and we all knew it. We were shot to doll rags. Our "milk run" had turned in to a death trap in the blink of an eye. Our last flight. The one where _Emily Jean_ and the rest of my fuckin' crew died…all, except the kid. At least, I hope he made it.

I saw his 'chute open, same time as mine. We were the only ones that bailed—that had time. We had just cleared the plane when our girl exploded in a helluva ball of fire. Shrapnel, flames and pieces of bomber followed us down. I tried to track Stoker, but it was so damned dark and smoky it was impossible. I remember wondering briefly if this is what those fire troops felt like, fighting inside burning buildings… Hell, no, not me! That's when I hit a downdraft and hit a big-ass rock, and the world went black…

12 April 42

It's the not knowin' that's killing me. I mean, I'm an old fart. I've survived more damned missions out here than anyone else around. Why not them? Why not him? Why couldn't I keep track of his 'chute? Why the hell did I have to hit that damned rock before I could see where he ended up? Why did I make it back with just some burns and a busted wing? I even made it back on foot! And he just flat disappeared off the map. And I _have_ to find him. I promised.

Damn that little weasel! He's the Brainiac! Everybody knows that! I immediately tagged him with that nickname, after our talk about his age, and by breakfast the next morning it was all over camp. He accepted the kidding with his usual quiet smile, and immediately moved on, getting _Emily Jean_ 's equipment ready for the next mission. If anybody could make it out in one piece, he can. And I have to make sure of it. He has to come back! _He has to_ …he's the only one who knows my wife's name is Emily…

Wasted and wounded

And it ain't what the moon did

And I got what I paid for now

See you tomorrow

Hey Frank can I borrow

A couple of bucks from you

To go waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda

You'll go waltzing Matilda with me…

TBC


	2. A Blinded Alley

**Chapter Two—A Blinded Alley**

 **Mike Stoker's POV**

Mud. Cold, filthy mud in my face. Do I even want to open my eyes? Nope. I don't think so. I silently take stock of my situation. Everything seems to check out okay, except, I can't move. Not one inch. As things come into focus, my hearing sharpens. I know those accents. And my blood runs cold. I know where I am. I am shackled—and a prisoner in a German patrol camp. Shit!

 _Please, God, I know we haven't talked much, lately, but let Hellfire be okay. Don't let some patrol find him. Just let him make it back in one piece. That's all I ask. He's a good guy. He doesn't deserve this. And if it's okay with you, God, please let him find me._

I know my St. Christopher is still around my neck. I can feel it, along with my dog tags. My sister gave it to me the day I shipped out. I stupidly promised her it would keep me safe…Forgive me, Dianne.

One side benefit (?) of being an Army brat is picking up languages at various duty stations. I seem to have a knack for it. I speak fluent French, German, and Spanish. It's one reason I did as well in school as I did. Like hell am I gonna let my captors know this. I try to lay motionless, so that they won't realize I'm awake. The trick works, but not for long. At a harsh command from one of the officers, a stocky young soldier stalks over to me and pulls me upright, leaning me up against the tree I am tied to. He kicks me in the side. I can't stop the gasp of pain as he achieves the desired result. I am instantly fully alert—and madder than hell.

My tormenter laughs at me. He seems to enjoy my pain as he kicks me repeatedly. Hazily, I wonder how this could be. _He doesn't look much older than me…just another kid in a different uniform…he doesn't even ask me any questions…doesn't even seem to care that he could be killing me…time seems to be slowing down…Hellfire, where are you?_ My world swirls around me, and fades to merciful black.

When I awake next, it is to some sort of awful smell. I recognize ammonia, and turn away as agonizing consciousness bears down on every part of me. It was too much to hope for rescue, and I was right. I am now is some sort of tent or something. Or maybe it's just my eyes that are wavering, and not the walls. That last kick to my head seems to have unhinged my vision a bit. I recognize the German officer's insignia swimming in front of me. And the shouted questions, which I refuse to answer, hence, the unbelievable torture, which I refuse to break under, begin in earnest.

 **Hank's POV**

7 May 42

Midlands Airbase,

County Cork, Ireland

I have been released from the hospital. There are rumors of stray German patrols sweeping the woods north of here for downed flyers; and Stoker is nowhere to be found. As I am currently between assignments to a crew, and Stoker's father is raising hell with Washington about finding him, I have managed to convince the brass to let me put together a small volunteer troop to try to find him.

Turns out the kid has some pretty valuable translation skills and his father managed to convince Washington that if he _has_ been captured, the Germans cannot be allowed to keep him. Dear God! Can you imagine having to fight for your own son like that?!

If those bastards have hurt that kid, I swear I will…well, there won't be enough left to send home to the fuckin' _Fatherland_!

I am supposed to meet up with my patrol at 0600 tomorrow. It's going to be made up of a mixed bag of whatever troops are available from all the services. It should be interesting. Because of lack of time, I have no real idea who I'm getting, with no files or planning time.… Just a rough idea of the men I'm getting, and the fact that I'm the ranking officer of this dog and pony show. There are a couple of those fire troops in there, out on light duty, due to burns or something. They must be a couple of crazy mothers!

We're also taking along a medic and one civilian. The civ is a member of the local militia, knowledgeable in weapons and the area. He'll be our guide, since he was born here. The one addition I am not happy about is a kid I know nothing about. They told me to expect problems, since he is one of the "jail or army" troops. I expect he'll be more trouble than he's worth. I guess his c.o. is sick of him and happy to pawn him off on somebody else for a while. If he gets too bad, I'll just tie him to a tree and pick him up on the way back. I don't have time for anybody's crap. I just wish we were leaving tonight.

 **Mike's POV**

 _Hellfire will find me, Hellfire will find me, Hellfire will find me…._ Over and over I repeat this mantra in my head. It's the only thing I have left. The only thing that keeps me from breaking. _I. Will. Not. Break. Hellfire WILL find me._ I keep going over in my mind the things I remember. The last date I remember is 22 March. The night _Emily Jean_ died. The night this damned nightmare started. I don't know how long ago it was. I lost track of time after I passed out. I know at least two nights passed after I hit the ground before the patrol found me.

I know I was in bad shape even before they showed up, because I could barely move. I had lost my pack somehow, or maybe it had been taken by scavengers when I hit the ground initially. That happens a lot. So, I had no water or food, no radio. Only good news there—there was nothing for the patrol to find, either. I had apparently had the presence of mind to rip all my id and insignia off my uniform and bury it, before the patrol got there, because that's part of their frustration. They can't be sure how important I am, or not… and I'm not telling.

I'm and innocent victim

Of a blinded alley

And I'm tired of all these soldiers here

No one speaks English

And everything's broken

And my strength is soaking away

To go waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda

You'll go waltzing Matilda with me…

TBC


	3. Now That I Kissed Her

Chapter Three—Now That I Kissed Her

 **Mike's POV**

Time means nothing. There's no difference between being awake and being asleep. Even the pain is the same. I am alone in the tent at the moment. It's strange how, while my body is trying to shut down; my brain seems to be speeding up, and I can't stop thinking. I have stopped counting the cuts and bruises… and other injuries…long ago. The thing that's scaring me right now is that I really can't see too good. That first kick in the head a long time ago started it, and now it's a lot worse. Everything's pretty dim, even when they drag me outside. I can tell the difference between inside and out by the feel of the ground, and the fact the sun is out sometimes. I feel it on my face. I have been here a while. My clothes don't fit right, and I stink. Bad.

I have been trying to remember all the good stuff that has happened to me. Meeting Hellfire. My last birthday before I shipped out. The times my best friend and I used to sneak into the pictures with our friends from the neighborhood. Kissing Annie Mercer in the dark of the movie house…Meeting a lady named Essie on the train to Paris when I was fifteen…! She believed me, (or pretended to) when I told her I was 18. Man, what a ride _that_ turned out to be! That memory makes me smile, even though smiling makes my whole face hurt. I would have never thought hookers were real people, too! But she was nice, and I have a helluva story to tell my grandsons someday…or, maybe not! I wish I had some way of getting a message out.

I no longer want Hellfire to find me. I'm too scared of what they'll do to him if they catch him. I wouldn't wish this nightmare I'm in on my worst enemy. The men doing this _are_ my worst enemies—and I wouldn't wish it on _them_. I guess that's what makes us different. And I just don't get it. I know not all Germans are like these soldiers. Just like not all Americans hate Germans. Hellfire and I talked about that once. He hates the Nazis, but not the Germans. He's German-Italian, so he gets the difference. I have some German blood in me, also, so I get it, too.

When they drag me out for questioning, they switch back and forth between German and English. I am careful not to react to any of their shifts, or to show that I understand everything they're saying, but it's getting harder. I wish they would just kill me and get over it over with, but from all they are saying, I know this is not in their game plan. Not even close. They keep talking about another patrol they have scoped out, and I know they've doubled the guard around me. I hear the guards talking, and there are more voices than before. They have asked me over and over about that patrol, and as always, I say nothing. They are getting more vicious in their retaliation. I doubt I could make it out of here, even if rescue _did_ come. My thoughts turn to the patrol _. Please God, don't let it be Hellfire!_ My wishing this is a double-edged sword, I realize bitterly, as I now have nothing left to hope for. I can literally feel my sanity beginning to slip away…

 **Hank's POV**

8 May 42

I have stowed Mike's journal in my footlocker. I don't want anything to happen to it. It's 0430 and colder than hell. Just finished chow, and getting ready for the patrol. It's gonna be a long haul, and I can't afford to overlook anything. I was just informed that one of the smoke-eaters went back to his unit yesterday, so that puts it to just me and four other guys—one a 20-year-old hood and one a civilian. Peachy. At least the civ is supposed to be able to handle himself. We'll see. At least I have a brief personnel sheet on the men under my temporary command now. I am not walking in totally blind. The few facts make me feel a little better about some of them, but not much. I read them over quickly, mentally making my own notes, along with the ones the brass have sent along.

 _The Medic:_ Sgt. Roy DeSoto, Medical Corps, USA—Age 25. TIS: 5 yrs. Stationed, Wellesley, England. Rotated to Midlands Base, Ireland, for further training. Interest lies in Psychological Effects of Wartime Injuries. _(HUH? I ask for a medic and they send me a shrink? Great! He just better be able to treat Stoker when we find him!)_

 _The Smoke-Eater:_ Cpl. Marco Lopez, Fireman, Fire Battalion, USA—Age 24. TIS: 3 yrs. Stationed Midlands Airbase, Ireland. Currently off-duty due to burns suffered to back and left arm. Will not impede effectiveness. Expert with fire and related issues. ( _Well, duh!)_

 _The Kid:_ Pvt. John Gage, Infantry, USMC—Age 20. TIS: 2 yrs. Stationed Camp Seton, Ireland. Expert Marksman—All Tested Weapons, _(What the hell does that nugget mean?)_ Exceptional Survival Skills. Tendency Towards Violence. _(Duh, he's a Marine!)_ NOTE: Promoted to PFC twice, Busted back to Pvt. twice. Once for belting a superior in the mouth. He has a juvenile record a mile long. ( _Fantastic!_ _The tree option is looking better all the time!)_

 _The Civ:_ Sgt. _(?)_ Chester "Chet" Kelly, _Militia Clan Kelly_ _(Whhaa-aat?! The families around here have their OWN militias? Do I even wanna ask?!)_ Expert Guide and Sharpshooter. Has many local contacts. _) Good! Maybe this guy, I can actually use!_

 _God, this has the makings of a total disaster! Hang on, Brainiac, I'm coming, buddy!_

 **Mike's POV**

I wish I was dead. Oh, God, please, let it be over. That patrol is dead, and it's my fault. It wasn't Hellfire, but my silence cost seven men their lives. I didn't know…I swear, I didn't know! When I wouldn't talk, they just picked them off like crows in a field. They never even knew what hit them…never knew they were even targeted. But I knew. And I saw them die. Well, heard them, more than saw them, but these bastards don't know that. It was a Russian patrol. Because of me, seven men will never see home. And as long as I'm alive, I'm a danger to anyone else who comes around…and I know Hellfire will come…I've felt it. The last couple of days, I've felt it.

I will my mind back to my memories…that lady, Essie…God, she was so beautiful! She took me to her compartment on the train. I was intoxicated just being with her. She was the first _woman_ I had ever been with. She was a redhead, and she was so soft, and smelled so good…She teased me a little about the fact I didn't have any hair on my chest, but she wasn't mean about it. She had to have known I wasn't really old enough to be with her; but, somehow, it didn't make any difference.

I was on my own, traveling in a strange country. Although I had been all over the world, this was the first time I had traveled by myself. We talked for a little while, and then…wow! She was incredible! She was patient and very understanding…and a little sad, too, afterwards. It took me a several years to understand that. But back then, I was just kind of awestruck, I guess; and proud of becoming a man.

A harsh shout brings me abruptly back to the present. Two soldiers rush in and grab my arms.

Now I've lost my St. Christopher

Now that I kissed her

And the one-armed bandit knows

And the maverick Chinaman knows

With the cold blooded style

And the girls down by the strip tease shows

Go—waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda

You'll go waltzing Matilda with me…


	4. The Ghost that Sells Memories

Dear Readers: I am a writer, not a history major, but that is no excuse for the major error I have just discovered in my story. Ireland was a _neutral_ country in 1942. There would probably have been no American or German troops in the country at that time. Please forgive the error and roll with the story as is, as as I beg creative license; since that sounds much better than total ignorance!

Btw, in answer to the reviewer concerned that I hadn't yet given a full song credit: The title of this song is actually "Tom Traubert's Blues: Waltzing Matilda" by Tom Waite. The version I use for my story is Rod Stewart's beautiful cover on "Rod Stewart, Unplugged and Seated"… I cry every time I listen to it…which is every time I sit down to work on this story! There is way more story than there is song, so I may add another song to the story… my muse is whispering ideas on that! Hugs! Kat

Also: A few Lakota words are translated to help out:

Wasichu—white man; Pahaska—long hair; Tunkasila—Grandfather; Cinks—my son; nagi tanka: The Great Spirit; Ciye-my brother; hoka hey hunkaschila!—Pay attention, young man!

And finally, yes, the dates in this chapter are out of order on purpose.

Chapter Four-The Ghost that Sells Memories

 _Hank's POV_

 _15 May 1942_

I have been fairly pleased so far. Other than some occasional bickering during rest periods, the men have held up well and all have done their parts. We're averaging 30 miles a day or better. We should be finding some sign soon. The kid has surprised me most of all. He has a hair-trigger temper, and he has been mostly sullen and silent, but he hasn't tried to pull much of anything, or tried to leave, although I have given him several deliberate openings. He is tough, as I expected, and seems comfortable in any situation thrown at him.

The only thing really worrying me right now is that he and my civilian guide do not get along at all. They butted heads from the moment they met. Being a marine, I would have expected some contempt for any civilian, but when Kelly immediately tried to take over the search, Gage showed how short his fuse really is, and went for the short, stocky Irishman. He growled something about not taking orders from a "mick civ." Kelly promptly replied he wasn't gonna work with a renegade savage, and _then_ the fight was on. Problem is, they are both fast, and strong as hell! I finally got my arms around Kelly pulling him off of Gage, while DeSoto managed to pull Gage down and away.

The kid had gone totally berserk! He was screaming something in some Indian language, and whatever he was yelling, it was bloodcurdling! I think it shocked all of us as much as it did Kelly; who was sitting on his ass staring at Gage, his green eyes as big as saucers. It took a few minutes for the medic to calm him down. I still don't know how DeSoto did it or what he said, but he managed to calm him down faster than I could've. The glazed look left Gage's eyes, as he rested quietly for a few seconds in DeSoto's arms. I caught one more very soft Indian word out of Gage, and both men looked shell-shocked for a moment. Gage suddenly rose cat-like to his feet; brushed himself off and stood at attention. His face was once again a stony mask.

I have to admit, I was impatient to get to the Brainiac, so my normally cool temper was on edge, as well. The dressing down I gave the two bruised and still bloody men left no doubt as to just _who_ was in charge of this patrol. None of the men were eager to cross me after that, so the patrol went smoothly enough. I just hope the bumps will work themselves out so we can become a team. Stoker doesn't need us at each other's throats.

Johnny's POV

 _8 May 1942_

I can't explain what happened with the fight this morning. I just know I can't handle any _wasichu_ civilian taking over…and the crack about being a savage... I just lost it. If he had any idea how many times I've heard that one. I know I shouldn't have called him a mick, it's just… I wanted a fight! It felt good! I hate it here.

Jail. Jail would've been better. Except in jail you can't see the stars. It would make these wasichu laugh if they knew I would die if I couldn't see the stars. They think I am so stupid. Wonder what they would think if they knew the reason I don't talk to them much is because I have to translate in my head every word they say? That I think in Lakota? That every word of English I have learned came only AFTER I joined the Marines. That I fooled the wasichu on the reservation by speaking phonetically, so they would think I understood and they wouldn't beat me so much? Hah! I understood more than they thought! I graduated from their wasichu school not understanding one word of their English, but speaking it perfectly!

I am not so against all wasichu now. I have a few friends. My father was wasichu, but he gave me over to my mother's care and ran from her just after I was born. He was afraid of his people. I am not, nor have I ever been wasichu to my people; at least not to the ones who mattered. My grandfather was Shaman. I was to be Shaman, until I found too much trouble in my path and shamed my people. Some Lakota said it was the wasichu in me after all. When the last trouble came, and Joseph Firewalker and I got arrested one too many times, it was jail or here for me. So, I am here.

The one thing I hate the most, is they cut my _pahaska_ , my long hair at the fort where I became a marine. Many who saw it laughed that my pahaska was nearly to my knees. As was our custom, my mother had braided it for me into two braids before I left our home. I did not explain I had never had it cut in my life. They were wasichu. They deserved no explanation. The wasichu barber cut off the braids, and shaved my head in two minutes. They would not allow me to keep the braids, or send them home to my mother. I had broken a sacred custom, and this made me afraid…but I will never tell anyone I fear the wasichu for anything. That is the day I truly learned to hate.

Cutting my hair was the one thing I had always refused to do. I was allowed to keep my pahaska at the Missionary School because my grandfather had refused to allow me to attend otherwise. And he was Shaman after all. When he told me the story just before I left home, he grinned at me. "Laughing Crow," he said merrily, "do not grieve me, as my journey ends only here very soon. There is much more Beyond. Remember the path the spirits are leading you on. Your life is not here in this place. I knew the day I put you in the wasichu school you had your own path to follow. But I wanted you to learn their ways, even if you would refuse to give into their brainwashing. I threatened to curse them if they did not let you keep your pahaska. I told them you were to become Shaman, and if they stood in the way, the Missionary School would be destroyed in a horrible plague the day you became Shaman!" " _Tunkasila_!" I laughed at the thought of the old man before me turning one of the wasichu's favorite bedtime stories back on them so perfectly!

When I told him this, Tunkasila eyed me sternly. "You know, cinks, my son, your path to _nagi tanka_ is not one to be taken lightly. I sense your path will be long and full of questions. But I also know there will be a wasichu you will someday call _ciye_ – "my brother." Here, I nearly fell to the ground, my laughter almost too much for me. Tunkasila slapped me sharply. Respect of elders in our tribe is always expected. I sobered instantly, and lowered my eyes. He continued, " _hoka hey hunkaschila!"_ His chocolate eyes, so like my own, softened. "You will have a difficult journey, cinks, because there will always be two sides of your heart at war with each other. The ciye of whom I speak….he will help ease the war within you. You will guard and guide each other. You will find him when you need him most. You will know him when you allow yourself to look in his eyes. And he, he will know you."

That conversation was the last I ever had with Tunkasila. More exhausted than I ever remember being, I address the stars:

 _How did you know, Tunkasila? And just how the hell did you know about ciye? And how did you know he would find me here, in this godforsaken hellhole?_

Now, I don't want your sympathy

Fugitives say

That the streets ain't for dreaming now

Manslaughter dragnet

And the ghost that sells memories

Want a piece of the action anyhow

Go waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda

You'll go waltzing Matilda with me…

TBC


	5. A Wound That Will Never Heal

_Chapter Five—A Wound That Will Never Heal_

 _Mike's POV_

The two guards who dragged me out into the clearing in front of the tent threw me roughly down. I am confused, because it is quiet, which is very unusual for the camp. Suddenly a crushing pain takes my breath away as something heavy impacts my side. Kicks rain down from all sides for a few hellish minutes, until a soft command to stop is given in _unaccented_ English!I strain my eyes to see the speaker, but in the glare, I can see nothing but shadows. Immediately, there is a soft chuckle, and the man resumes speaking, again, in flat, Midwestern American tones. "Oh, I assure you, Herr Stoker, I am very much a German citizen, and a very loyal member of the Nazi Party." My confusion grows, even as my heart sinks. I know I have not talked…not once! Again, the soft laugh stabs my soul.

"Your laughable _bravery and loyalty_ ; he sneers. "Look at you—blinded and broken for nothing! The Third Reich has known since before you were shot down _exactly_ who you are, and _exactly_ what you are capable of accomplishing for der Fuerher. Why do you think we targeted your bomber so carefully that night? Why do you think we made sure you _alone_ of all the crew survived?

I say nothing. I will not allow this…creature to see that he is closer to the truth than even he realizes. I _am_ blind—and I am _nearly_ broken. But not in the way he thinks. I know now I am completely alone. I know I will not allow myself to live. I will not assist this man in whatever evil he wants to accomplish. A plan begins to form. I just have to find something sharp—soon. I have heard murmurings amongst the guards of a planned move, and I do not plan to be one of those going with them. My hands scrabble carefully under me for anything I can find. As luck would have it, I find a small, sharp stick and quickly palm it. It will be difficult, but it just might do the trick.

"Fortunately," the voice calmly went on, "it is not your eyes of which our beloved leader has need. Otherwise," his pause was somehow menacing, "every man in this camp would have been shot today." With this chillingly flat statement, his voice turned away from me. "Have him ready to transport to Berlin in three days. I want him fed—and clean him up—he smells like a pig! Also, find a spare uniform for him; no one is to know who he is. Warn your men. If he does not arrive alive, the man responsible—dies."

The shadows faded around me, and for a long time, I was simply left right where I was. For a while I didn't mind, as the sun felt good, and I must have actually fallen asleep. When I awoke next, it was with a shock, as someone threw a bucket of cold, but clean water over me. Two soldiers laughed at me as they somewhat more gently dragged me, now shivering, back into the tent. I suppose that was their idea of a bath. As I was now wet and cold, getting back to sleep was going to be hard. I contemplated my options, and decided to wait on my plan. I know I now have a couple of days, and if I do it right, I don't want them to have time to panic and call the Shadow Man back here too soon. Although they were under threat of death if anything happened to me, I knew they were programmed to obey and would contact him anyway.

 _Hanks's POV_

 _17 May 42_

We are moving much more quietly now, as there are definite signs of activity in the area. We are somewhere in the far northern area of the country. The trek has been mostly uneventful, but my two problem children have come to a legitimate and serious disagreement. Kelly wants to head northwest, as he feels towards the coast would be the most logical place for any troops to be. Gage is adamant that a camp is located just a short distance away, to the northeast. He won't deviate from the trail he's found, and says he has been tracking animals and people all his life. So, we're taking a breather, and I have a decision to make. Kelly wants me to split the patrol. I can't do that. We're too short on manpower as it is. If we find Stoker, it's gonna take all of us to get him back. Lopez is much better, but his back muscles are still healing. Most of the men sit quietly, resting, ready to move out, once my decision is made.

Gage, as always, is the exception. He is clearly agitated, unable to stop fidgeting. He plops down next to me. "Sir, can I talk to you?" he asks quietly. I raise my eyebrow, a little surprised at the genuine respect I read in his expression. "Of course. What's on your mind?" "You want to get the Lieutenant back, right?" Irritated, I told him, "That's what this is all about, Gage, you know that!" Calmly, he replied, "I get it, Cap, I really do. But that's why you have _got_ to trust me now. I know what I am feeling. What I am seeing. What I am smelling. I can find him. I know I can. We're close. Very close. But if we turn towards the coast, we'll lose him. This has nothing to do with me and Kelly. He's good at what he does. But he's wrong, Cap. He's wrong."

He stood gracefully and walked away, to sit back under the trees. And using more words than I had ever heard him string together at one time since we'd met; my decision was made for me, by a kid I hadn't even wanted along. From conversations I have heard, the kid's life has been really rough. My old man is a Grade-A Number-One Asshole, but at least I had the choice to walk away when I met Em. If only I'd been brave enough to do it sooner...Nope. I cannot allow my thoughts to go to that dark place right now. My heart still breaks... But still... y'know I would never tell another living soul this…but if I had ever had a son, I would have loved for him to turn out just like that kid. Okay, maybe not _exactly_ like him, but still…

Johnny's POV

Why do I keep thinking of home? I miss my mother of course, but there is nothing left for me there. My real father ran just after I was born. Because he was wasichu, and because my mother refused to name him to our people when I was born. She told me much later that he was a good man, but that he feared what his father would do to us if he found out about us. He loved us too much for that; so he chose to go back to his father. When it came time to take my tribal name, my Tunkasila named me Laughing Crow. He said this was because of my disposition and because there would come one day into my life an _iktomi_ —a trickster spirit…one whom I would call "friend." My mother never married, but there was a Lakota she loved on the res, who worked at our volunteer fire station. He was a firefighter named John Roderick Gage. He had taken the wasichu name in order to be allowed to become a "real" firefighter. The only one the station had. The volunteers all proudly called Roddy "Cap." And they knew their "Cap" would never lead them into any danger he would not leap into first.

The wasichu stations were all modern and new. They felt so good about themselves for donating their old, worn out and broken equipment to "the poor injuns!" We were to be grateful! My mother and Roddy were so happy together! He loved me like no father ever could have. He was in our lives from the time I was three, just after my naming ceremony, until I was seven years old. Momma and Roddy were engaged to be married when he was killed fighting a brushfire for which the station had no adequate equipment. Three volunteers were found sheltered underneath my father. None survived.

There was no big fancy funeral, like there is for the wasichu. That is not our way. My mother and I visit him in our tribal cemetery. He was a good man, and I miss him still. I insisted Tunkasila enter me into the Missionary School under my _chosen_ wasichu name _John Roderick Gage, Jr_. I will never allow them to forget my father, or what they did to him.

I go back to sit under the trees, and Kelly glances over at me. We have gotten along a bit better lately. He has taken to calling me Speaking Bull, and I call him _Heyoka_. It's been making him crazy that I won't translate that one. I smile to myself. "Clown" really does fit him!

Hank's POV

Just as I got read to address the men, DeSoto wandered over and sat down in the same spot Gage had just vacated. He looked at me with those serious blue eyes of his. "Spill it, Sergeant, what's on your mind?" "Well, I know my opinion doesn't count for much, but I am the next in line if something happens to you, until we get the Lieutenant back, right?" "Yep, that's the way it is, DeSoto, so what do you think?" You obviously have an opinion." He at least had the grace to blush at my words, but forged ahead anyway. "I agree with Gage, Sir. There's something to the way he's been scouting out this trail. He knows exactly where he is and what he is doing every minute. I-I'd trust my life to him…Sir." He glanced down, this last admission obviously making him nervous.

I study the man in front of me more carefully, and a thought comes to me…"Roy, just what did happen at the end of that fight on the first morning of the patrol, anyway?" If my use of his first name surprised him, he hid it well.

"I dunno, exactly, Cap. I just pulled him away, and kept telling him to calm down; that he'd be okay. Y'know, the stuff you tell soldiers when they get injured—to keep them from going into shock. When he first opened his eyes, he wasn't seeing me at all. I thought maybe at first he had a concussion or something…but then his eyes cleared up and he looked me right in the eyes. It was weird, like looking in a mirror. I've had a pretty rough life…but I can't explain—here Stanley interrupted quietly.

"I heard him say something to you. An Indian word. What was it?"

"No, Cap," the young sergeant looked surprised. "It was English. He called me his brother."

And it's a battered old suitcase

In a hotel someplace

And a wound that will never heal

No primadonnas the perfume is on

An old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey

And good night to the street sweepers

The night watchmen flame-keepers

Good-night, Matilda. Good-night, Matilda, too

A/N: And yes, for you schemers and dreamers out there, I can DO THE MATH...If, and this is a _big_ if, depending on what you guys think, so **please let me know** , Hellfire turns out to be Johnny's father...why do you think an almost 15 year old boy would have been scared to death of his father's reaction?!

TBC


	6. Good Night Matilda

Chapter Six—Good Night, Matilda

19 May 42

Hank's POV

Gage located the camp this morning. It's nearing twilight, and we have held back because it is heavily guarded. There's been quite a bit of activity all day. What worries me is that although Gage is positive Stoker is there somewhere, there's been no sign of him at all. Apparently, they must be holding him inside the tent. I hate to think what they could be doing to him. The odd thing about this camp is that it is so damned quiet. I mean, they are busy, but no one is talking much. They seem focused and in a hurry. That's not good. It looks like they're getting ready to bug out. That can only mean that Mike is running out of time.

Gage is suddenly at my side. He can move more quietly than any man I know. It's weird. His nickname amongst the men, except for Kelly, has quickly become "Shadow," because that's exactly what he's like. He seems to like the name, and even like being a part of the group. He and Kelly are even getting along to a degree. They have their own names for each other. "Speaking Bull" and "Clown!" Typical! Of course, Gage only calls Kelly that in Lakota, and won't translate it for him, just to make him crazy. Gage told me one day when I overheard one of their arguments and asked him about it. If they didn't despise each other, I think they might end up being friends…

"Cap, I have an idea how we can get Stoker out of there. It's risky, but I think we could pull it off."

"Okay, Gage, let's hear it."

"First, we need to steal two German uniforms—one for you and one for DeSoto. I've already picked the two targets wearing them." He eyed me calmly as my face must have showed what I thought of his hare-brained scheme so far.

He lifted one hand as he held off my objections. "Now, wait, hear my out, sir. Please. It may be the only chance the lieutenant has. I can get the uniforms. Then you and DeSoto propose a prisoner exchange."

"What?! They'll never agree to that! Not if Stoker's as valuable as what Washington is saying!"

Gage smiled grimly. "Of course not! It's only to get the "prisoners"—me and Kelly, within firing range of the guards. I have pistol silencers I've rigged. He and I are the best marksmen. Lopez is a decent shot. He'll act as a distraction and take out the perimeter guards. I figure with the element of surprise on our side, Kelly and I will take out as many as we can. The others can then move in and clean up the rest of them; while you and I sneak into the tent and rescue the lieutenant. We could also forage for supplies while we're there. We need them."

I looked at the kid in amazement. The plan was actually a pretty good one. I could only see two flaws in it. One, getting the uniforms could get him shot, and two, I had to make one change he probably wasn't going to like. "If you can get the uniforms without getting killed, we do this." I held up a hand to forestall the objection I knew would follow. "But, you are _not_ going with me to rescue Stoker. I want DeSoto with me. He is our medic. I want him to be able to evaluate Mike and see what needs to be done quickly."

He immediately saw the point, and gave no argument. "When I get the uniforms, I'll try to get a look at him. That should give DeSoto some idea of what we're facing."

"Just how do you propose to get those uniforms, Gage?"

Here he turned glittering chocolate eyes on me and gave a wolfish grin. From a sheath suspended by a rawhide string down the back of his shirt, he pulled a very long, very deadly silver hunting knife. It was inlaid with turquoise, and for something so deadly, it was one of the most beautiful weapons I have ever seen.

"My _Tunkasila_ gave this to me, when I became a man, at thirteen. I _will_ get the uniforms. Believe me."

Chills ran down my spine. _I believed him._ He turned away, and—Shadow—was gone.

I am not normally much of a praying man, but I do now.

"Come on God, help us out here. Hold on to Brainiac just a little while longer…"

Mike's POV

I took a deep breath. The time had finally come. Starting earlier this morning, there had been a lot of movement and gruff commands. They have just fed me my evening meal of cabbage water, and I know they will leave me alone for the night. The transport to Berlin will come for me in the morning. Now is the time for me to make my move. I hate to do it, as suicide is never something I pictured myself doing. I hope with all my other injuries, no one will be able to tell what really happened. I don't want my parents to know. It will kill them.

I don't really feel bad for me…I'm pretty much wrecked anyway. I just refuse to go along with these assholes. I refuse to break…although I guess suicide is the ultimate way to break, in a way. I wonder if God forgives suicide? Catholic teachings say He doesn't but…in this case, I hope I catch a break. I mean, He created our hearts, right? He should be able to read our intents, too. I'm not doing this because I don't want to live. I'm doing this because I don't want to help kill millions…

 _Oh, God, I guess I'll let you sort it out…I can't even pray anymore…so You'll just have to take my word for it. Give me a break, okay?_

Over the last two days, I have managed to sharpen my stick on a small rock I found on the floor of the tent. It should be about right by now. We'll have to see…it's an awfully small stick. I turn it in my hand and aim it towards my wrist. The pain of the puncture surprised me. I must have gotten deeper than I thought. I am rewarded by a flow of blood, and now I simply lay my head back, and wait. It's up to God now.

TBC

A/N: Dear Readers: Chapter Five was the last time you will see lyrics to any public domain songs appearing in any of my stories, as I received a rather pointed e-mail threatening closure of my entire account if I did so again. My apologies for any offense.

Also, to the reviewer who felt by introducing the possibility of Hellfire being Johnny's father, that I am suddenly going to turn this into "a Johnny story," please rest assured; IF Hellfire _is_ Johnny's father…it will be a subplot, I assure you. I have introduced Johnny's backstory so thoroughly because he is a key element to the rescue of Mike. Please also realize that these characters are all A/U and _not_ the familiar characters from Station 51. Thanks to all who read and review…I need all the feedback I can get.


	7. You'll Come A' Waltzin'

Chapter Seven—You'll Come A-Waltzing…

 _Hank's POV_

 _19 May 42_

I watch as Gage slips silently into the camp. I see two men fall, and the chilling thing about it is, they never make a sound. He drags them behind some rocks, and just as quickly, he is back with the two uniforms. I know he has slit their throats, but there is no sign of blood on either uniform. His expression is completely impassive as he hands the uniforms over and makes his report.

"I got a chance to peek into the tent. Stoker is in very bad shape. I could barely see him, but he is bleeding badly, from his wrist or his arm…. Something is very wrong. Something more than what they did to him, I think. You must hurry if you want to save him. I don't think he has much time left." Only then am I allowed to see the sadness in his chocolate eyes, and the anger. The mask falls firmly into place once again; and I realize what the Brainiac must have done. And I am furious and horrified and panicked all at the same time. I quickly regain control, and we return to the men.

DeSoto and I hustle into the uniforms, as I fill him in on Gage's observations. He frowns and puts a few items in his pockets, and our ruse begins. Gage and Kelly take their places as our "prisoners," and we march them towards the camp, praying this plan works. Lopez has hidden himself as close as he dares, burrowing down close to the edge of the field where the sentries are keeping watch. He had taken the precaution of rolling in the mud, so he is fairly hard to see. As long as he doesn't smile, he should be okay. That's not a joke…more than one camouflaged man has been shot when he opened his mouth and the enemy caught sight of his teeth.

Fortunately, my German is pretty good, so I was able to make the first part of our ruse work, as two soldiers called to us and came out cautiously from the camp. I offered the two prisoners to them, by telling them I was looking for an American I was supposed to pick up from a camp in the area. Told them I would trade for him. They didn't fall for it, as I knew they wouldn't, but all this time, we had been slowly inching towards the camp. In a matter of moments, we were close enough to reach our targets.

As planned, DeSoto and I dropped down and headed for the tent as Lopez, Kelly, and Gage opened up on the camp. The three outer sentries were dealt with by Lopez, as planned. I glanced back once, and was amazed at the incredible accuracy displayed by the two sharpshooters. Neither missed a single target as they calmly took out every single soldier in that camp, firing in tandem. They worked as if they had been teamed together for years—a very deadly team. I would never underestimate any of my men again. Now, we had to get Stoker out of this hellhole. We finally reach the tent, and as I enter, I get my first look at my best friend—and my heart nearly stops. "Oh, my God…" I whisper.

 _Mike's POV_

I had been semi-conscious for quite a while, I think. I knew the Shadow-man was due, but not yet. There was suddenly a lot of gunfire, and it made me wonder if he was back—if maybe the soldiers here had made him mad and he had shot them. It was possible…

 _I figure he's going to be plenty mad at me for ruining all his pretty plans_ …as my eyes drift closed again, I hear a familiar voice, and I smile, thinking I must be dead for sure.

"Hey, dumbass, whaddaya done to yourself now?"

I smile, but can't respond. Too dry. Too sick. Too late. I think I'm dying…

I can sense his presence to one side of me, while on the other side of me; someone is attempting to turn me onto my side. I groan without meaning to, but it's just too painful.

A quiet, reassuring voice. "Cap, help me. We gotta get these cuffs off him. I've got to get that stick out of his arm and get the bleeding stopped quick!"

And that is when I fade back into peaceful oblivion… _at least he's here_.

 _Hanks's POV_

There's no key for the cuffs handy, but I have an idea. "Go tell Johnny to come here." DeSoto shoots me a look for a moment, but obeys immediately.

In less than a minute, John is there, looking at me quizzically. "I have an idea you might be able to get these off him." I tell him flatly. He glances at the cuffs, and then asks for one of my rank pins. I give it to him, and in less than thirty seconds, Mike's hands are free, and the pin is back in my hand. He smiles crookedly. "I'll go rig a travois to haul him with. It'll be ready in ten." And without another word, he leaves.

Shaking his head as he watched our mysterious Shadow leave, Roy set to work on trying to do what he could for Mike. "He is in bad shape, Cap. I think I've got the bleeder in his arm under control, but I don't know how much blood he lost for sure. Plus, he's taken an awful lot of abuse here. Not really sure what all's wrong. We probably won't really know till we get him checked out at a hospital."

"Get him as ready to go as you can. I'll have the others gather up whatever supplies we can scavenge, and then we'll head out. We'd be smart just to keep heading north. We're close to the border up here. The Allies aren't that far away. If we can signal them, then we can get some help for Mike, and maybe keep our tails out of a crack in the process."

Suddenly, the sound of a Jeep pulling up and gunfire breaks out in front of the camp. The next sound was that of vicious hand-to-hand combat going on right in front of the tent. I grabbed my rifle and peeked out to see what was happening. A blond man nearly twice Gage's size was squared off with him in the clearing in front of the tent. The men's escorts were lying around the clearing. They didn't look as if they would be moving anytime soon. Kelly was now sporting a large gash across his bloody shirt, apparently having been hit by gunfire. He didn't seem particularly fazed, however, just angry.

The blond had a pistol in his right hand. Gage's left fist was closed around his dagger. The blond was taunting Gage in German. Gage was doing the same, in Lakota. Suddenly, we all sensed the change in him. He was no longer a Marine: he was Shadow, a Lakota Warrior. And he was not just intent on counting coup on his enemy. He would kill this one with his bare hands…and it would not be pretty. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. And if I was honest, I didn't want to. I knew, somehow, that this was the man who had hurt Mike; the one who had driven him to the point of trying to take his own life.

I turned to the others, and gave my orders. I spotted the travois Gage and Lopez had completed. "DeSoto, you and Lopez, get Stoker ready. Kelly, you okay?"

Still intent on the battle, Kelly replied, "Yes, sir. Just a crease. I'll take care of it later."

"See that you do. Haul as many rations and supplies as you can. Fit whatever you can on the travois without making Stoker too uncomfortable. Make sure the others have packs as well. "Pack up and move out. Shadow," I saw him slant his eyes toward me. "Catch up."

A slight nod of acknowledgement. We turned and marched away from that camp, and not one of us looked back. I know, because I had Kelly take point, and I was on drag, just in case Shadow needed me, although I knew he wouldn't…

About twenty minutes later, there came a blood-curdling scream, followed by a victor's cry, shouted in Lakota. If anything, that sound was even more chilling than the scream had been. We continued our march in silence, with Mike still unconscious on the travois. When Shadow silently caught up to us about a half-hour later; it was if nothing, and everything; had changed.

TBC


	8. Unlikely Angels

Chapter Eight—Unlikely Angels

 _27 May 42_

 _Hank's POV_

Braniac had finally come to not long before we found the base camp. What those bastards did to him is unreal, and I'll never forget his first words when he came around…

 _Mike's POV_

"Sun feels good. Hellfire, where are we? You found me. Hellfire, you got me before God did…that's good. Glad."

I was being bumped around like crazy, so I knew something big had happened. I remembered the gunfire, and somebody turning me over. I could feel my arms lying on my chest, so I figured Hellfire had gotten me out somehow. I was in a lot of pain, and I was thirsty. It felt like I hadn't had a drink in forever. I knew it was daylight because of the warmth, but I still couldn't see a damned thing. And I was mostly surprised I was actually still alive. I shouldn't have been, because Hellfire had promised. And I knew he always kept his promises.

The bumping stopped, and I felt someone put a canteen to my lips. A soft voice whispered, "Here, just a little at first." I heard the sounds of a fire being made and smelled coffee being brewed. Apparently, we were setting up camp.

I drank gratefully. I had heard the voice before, in the tent, but I didn't know the man; it wasn't Hellfire. He realized I was wondering, and he continued speaking softly. "It's okay. I'm a medic. My name is Sgt. Roy DeSoto. I helped Cap get you out of the tent. We're almost to the base now. Can you tell me where you're wounded? I've bandaged your wrist. We figured out what happened there. Do you remember what else happened?"

I grimaced at the thoughts. "Yeah, I remember. My eyes are probably the worst. I can't really see any more." I heard a sharp gasp that I knew was Hellfire. But I knew I had to keep going. "Got kicked in the head one too many times, I guess. It happened back when I first got taken, in a go-round with the first guard, who kicked the hell out of me for the fun of it, I guess. My vision was kind of blurry after that, and then just kept getting worse. There was an officer, a big blond guy, who came toward the end."

Here I heard a feral growl from another man I didn't know, but I was too tired to try to figure out its meaning. "He wanted to take me back to Berlin to have me translate and use my knowledge to help the Nazis. I refused to cooperate, and I suppose they were going to…well. I'm sure you know their methods as well as I do. I found a stick and decided to spoil their party. Apparently, you guys showed up in time to mess up their plans, and rescue me in the bargain. I assume when I decided to let God sort it all out, He made His decision, in the form of some unlikely angels."

Someone must have been drinking coffee and choked on it, as I heard a splashing sound, a muttered curse, and several chuckles. I knew then it was Hellfire who had spilled his coffee. That made me smile.

 _Hank's POV_

 _5 Jun 42_

 _Camp Fiannon, Northern Ireland_

It feels strange to be back in an organized camp again. The colonel in charge here seems to be a good man, but I really don't know what's going to be happening next. From what I can gather, I may be sent into another bomber crew, probably over to France. They're preparing for a big push there. The colonel is just waiting for orders now. Our gear was sent up on a transport from Gawd-Awful Airfield. Mike has his journal back, for all the good it does him now, and I have started my own.

Marco has been sent back to his unit, which met us up here. They are waiting for orders to the front as I write this. I hope he makes it. He's a good man, and I'd hate to see anything happen to him. Of course, like with most soldiers out here, I doubt I'll ever know. I still think he's crazy for having anything to do with burning buildings or fires…but then, who am I to say? He thinks Braniac and I are crazy for 'flying around in a glorified tin can making things go boom,' as he so aptly put it. He told me at least if something breaks on his truck, he won't fall several hundred feet or more to the ground. He does have a point there…

Chet disappeared into the woods just before we arrived at the camp on 28 May. He said he already had another group who needed his help. The odd thing was, he gave Shadow something before he left…a rabbit's foot on a chain. He told him to be sure never to lose it, and to expect to see him again someday, and that he would ask for it back. Shadow just shrugged and pocketed the charm, shaking his head. He never said goodbye, but he did give him one piece of advice…"Next time a man shoots at you, Heyoka, _duck_!" Chet had finally had it. "Okay, Speaking Bull, just what the hell does 'Heyoka' mean, anyway?" And Shadow grinned hugely. In one word he cemented their friendship for life as he turned away, laughing. "Clown!" Kelly rolled his eyes, and continued down the path into the trees, chuckling softly.

Roy has been attached to the base hospital here at Camp Fiannon temporarily. There is are a lot of training going on the Isle of Wight and also the fact that the Allies will eventually likely be more involved in Northern Ireland, as well as not being all that far from England, so medics will always be needed. The good thing about this is that he'll be able to stick by Braniac, at least for a while. The doctors still don't know if they're going to be able to do anything about his vision or not. They say sometimes it just takes time to heal, but either way, his time as a Flight Engineer and in the Army is over. He'll be shipped home sometime in the next few weeks. He's not happy about it. He's been really down. I'm not sure why, but I think he feels like he's letting everybody down, especially his father. It's not like any of this is his fault. I haven't been able to get in to talk to him. Hopefully, DeSoto can get through to him. Maybe that special training of his will help Stoker after all.

As for Shadow, he's another case altogether; and I do mean case. I had hoped after we got here, he would straighten out, but things have just gotten worse. He's acting like a caged tiger. I am not sure what's going to happen with that kid. I want to talk to him, but I'm not sure what to say. Ever since Kelly left, he seems like he's been at loose ends and spoiling for a fight. I'm very much afraid for him. If he goes up against the wrong man, he could really find himself in a lot more trouble than he can get out of. I know I'm not his commanding officer, but there's something about that kid that has really gotten under my skin. The only one I've seen that can even talk to him is DeSoto, and that was just back at the beginning of our rescue mission. I wonder…that conversation DeSoto and I had was so strange. I wonder if Roy could actually help Shadow? Could he really be his touchstone—his brother? Two sides of the same coin?

I found Roy sitting outside on the hospital steps. He looked about as tired as I've ever seen him, and I knew he'd been continuing with his training, and with the casualties coming into the hospital. There weren't many units around, but there were a lot of flights going over all the time, and it seemed these were the boys he kept busy helping to put back together.

Roy surprised me by speaking first. "Cap, I feel so useless around here."

"What're you talking about, Roy? You've been working non-stop in the hospital!"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. A lot of those boys in there are gonna get patched up to go right out and get themselves killed or captured within a couple of days or a few weeks. Hell, I've only been here about a week, and I've already patched up a few of them twice!"

My heart hurt for these guys, but I tried to be flip about it. It was a mistake. "Well, you know what they say, 'War is—"

Roy gave me a hard look as he interrupted. "Hell. Yeah, I know, Cap." He lapsed into a deep silence as he did something I had never seen him do before. He lit a Lucky Strike and took a deep drag off it.

After a while, he looked over at me and commented, "You know, the only time I have really felt useful was when we were on that mission to rescue Stoker. I think he's gonna be okay. He's still pissed about his eyes, but they're getting better, slowly. What has him so angry is that damned Nazi Gage killed knew who he was along. They were just playing with him. They even knew who he was before they shot down your plane. You guys were targeted, and they tried telling him your whole crew was killed, including you. But somehow, deep inside, even after the guy told him that, he couldn't make himself believe you were dead. Not entirely. He just couldn't let them use him. That's why the stick. Why he did what he did. He wants to tell you himself, but the damned doctors in there aren't letting people see him. Don't have any idea why."

And suddenly that's when I got the idea. It was perfect, if I could only convince the brass…and the other guys. But first I had some information I needed from Roy.

"Roy, do you think Stoker's eyes are really gonna be okay? As in he's gonna be able to see?"

"Well, yeah. Not well enough to do what he did before and he may need glasses, but yeah, he'll be able to see, eventually."

"His mind wasn't affected, was it? I mean he's still the Braniac, right?"

"Well, I didn't know him, so I don't know for sure; but they don't seem to think his intelligence or memory was affected, or anything. He has passed a lot of tests and everything. He does seem to have some pretty awful nightmares, but that's normal at this point. I do know he came out real high on his IQ test. I snuck a look at his file when the doctors left it sitting in his room the other day."

I looked at Roy admiringly. "What's a guy like you doing here working as a medic? You obviously have a lot more training than you're admitting to."

"Well, Cap, even in the Army, what they mostly need is warm bodies. I do have an advanced degree, but it's in Psychology, not 'Medicine', so they don't really see much use for it, yet. I'm working on them, but it's slow going. I figure someday, it'll be seen as being just as real. The mind is the most important healer of all, if we just let it be."

I let out a low whistle. If anyone could level the playing field, this determined young man could.

"I need to get in to talk to Mike. It's important. Can you get me in?"

Roy thought a moment. "Yeah, I think so."

"Depending on what Mike has to say about my idea, how would you like to feel like you did on that mission, Roy? How would you like to be able to make a real difference to guys like Mike?"

"I'm all for it, but what are you talking about? That was a one off. A special mission."

"Maybe not. What would you say if I could swing getting us turned into a team? A specialized team to do nothing but extractions, like what we did with Mike? We all have specialized skills, and we work very well together. The other guys are either here, or are close enough to get a message to. We're also small enough that we can slip through enemy territory just about anywhere if we're careful. It'd be dangerous as hell, but so is what we do anyway. What do you think?"

"How does Mike fit in? Say his vision doesn't come back all the way. They wanna send him home."

"Nope. We need him. Even if he can't see all that well, we can work around that. He is one of the most brilliant tacticians I have ever known. He also has a photographic memory. That means anything he's _already_ read or seen, he remembers. All his training is still in his head. Stuff he needs to know, somebody can read to him for a while, if needs be. We can make this work; especially if we can get his father, Col. Stoker on our side. He fought hard to put this team together to find Mike in the first place. Now that we found him, I doubt it'll be all that hard to convince him not to waste his efforts. We just have to convince the Braniac…"

For the first time, Roy heard doubt creep into my voice.

Roy told me, "I don't think it's gonna be as hard as you think. He wants outta there. I'll get you in. You tell him what you have in mind. Then the two of you can contact the Colonel. What have we got to lose?"

At Roy's words, Shadow came back into my thoughts.

"The other problem we have is Shadow."

Roy nodded gravely. "At least I know right where he is at the moment."

A feeling of dread swept over me. "Oh?"

He sighed. He indicated the hospital. "Yeah. Last night he got into it with another guy in the canteen, and ended up getting cut up pretty good. They both got hauled in here by MP's early this morning. The other guy was released after he was stitched up and sobered up. Gage wasn't quite so lucky. I managed to confiscate his dagger before somebody else did. The doctor in charge knows I have it. I told him it was a family heirloom. He didn't really care. I got a tag for it, in case there's any hassle, and put in my footlocker. Anyway, Shadow ended up needing a transfusion. Nobody wanted to do it, because…"

Here he broke off, his face red with anger and disgust. I got it immediately, and my anger matched his own. No words were needed as he lightly tapped the puncture mark in the crook of his left elbow. He chuckled bitterly and muttered, "Guess that truly makes us brothers, huh?"

I nodded briefly without speaking…What could I say?

TBC


	9. Hellfire's Angels

Chapter Nine: Hellfire's Angels

17 Sep 42

London, England

The meeting was considered top-secret. Its purpose was to officially sanction a brand new clandestine rescue team for the Allied Command. Of course, if they were captured, no one at Command would know anything about them. Nothing extraordinary would be done to obtain their release. That is what being clandestine meant. The team all understood this from the moment they agreed to be a part of the undertaking. They were, to all intents and purposes, invisible.

None of the team had ever been to Allied Headquarters before, and they weren't sure what to expect. Each of them had all been detached from their units and placed under the command of Colonel James Stoker. He would be their liaison in Washington, DC and in London when necessary. The missions they would undertake would be to rescue captured or downed Allied personnel anywhere in Europe and Great Britain, and eventually, other places if necessary.

Direct command of the unit itself would fall on Captain Henry "Hellfire Hank" Stanley. His ability to lead had been proven time and time again. Cap had handpicked the rest of the men in the unit himself. The past six months of training had proved to him that his initial instincts had been right. These men were born to do the job they were now being called upon to perform. They had worked hard, and they deserved this. The unit had been inadvertently named by the unit's second, on the day they rescued him six months previously: "Hellfire's Angels."

Second in command was none other than Lt. Michael Stoker himself. He still had some vision problems, and had to use very strong glasses, which aggravated him mightily, as they didn't always help, and there were times he simply couldn't see at all. This had earned him a new nickname. He was now known affectionately as "Mole" by his teammates. His blindness did nothing to blunt his intelligence gathering and tactical abilities in the field. His language and translation skills would be a major asset. His hearing had become uncannily sharp, and even Shadow couldn't sneak up on him; no matter how often he tried. Mike had also worked with Shadow to develop his hand-to-hand combat techniques, and he had proven to be a very apt student. He had come to be a very valuable member of the team. If the brass knew nothing of his bouts of blindness, why would the team tell them? Even Col. Stoker had been told nothing of them.

Sgt. Roy "Doc D." DeSoto was their medic, and a very fine one at that. He was also the unofficial peacemaker of the group, and was a trained psychologist. He became something of a morale officer, but was no moralist and was not judgmental. He understood that the varied backgrounds of the men, and the constant stress they were under meant that fights and bickering were normal. The important point was that when it came to working together, training as a team, the men all knew their jobs, and performed together flawlessly. While he had come from a rough background himself, he had grown up with some religious training. He did not force his beliefs on anyone, but it was nice to have the grounding it provided when he needed it. This team was the closest thing he had had to a family in a very long time, and he was grateful for it.

Cpl. Marco "Big Boom" Lopez turned out to be much more than an expert with 'fire-related issues'. He was also an expert with explosives and incendiary devices as well as being an excellent marksman. These qualifications made him indispensable to the team, as well as the fact that he was also very familiar with mine field detection equipment. This particular skill would definitely come in handy down the road. He also loved to tinker with new gadgets he came across, and he and Stoker spent hours playing with designs for various diabolical surprises for their enemies. After seeing some of the demonstrations of these designs, Cap was very glad the two men were on his side!

Pvt. John "Shadow" Gage was still the wild card in the deck. His skills were unquestioned and essential to the team. He was the weapons and hand-to-hand combat master. He had trained the others in these skills, so that now, all of them possessed the skills necessary to fight off an attacker using no weapons other than their own bodies. He now sported a scar which ran a few inches down the right side of his face; a result of the knife fight he had gotten into six months previously. There were several other scars which were visible only if he removed his shirt, one of which ran across his abdomen, and had caused the need for the transfusion he had received from _ciye_ —his brother—Roy. He still didn't understand the relationship exactly, but neither man questioned it. The two had become fast friends in the short time they had known each other. It was as if _nagi tanka_ —the Great Spirit—or Roy's "God" had brought them together. He thought of it more as destiny, but either concept worked. Shadow was as deadly as ever, but Roy had a calming effect on him, as had the return of _iktomi_ , the trickster spirit who had become his friend. For as predicted by his _Tunkasila,_ his Grandfather, that is precisely who Heyoka was.

Chet "Heyoka" (Clown) Kelly was now called by the Lakota name by every man on the team. He was still officially a civilian in the employ of the Army, but none of them held it against him. One of his greatest assets was his network of contacts all over Great Britain. His skills also included communications, and this would be his main area of responsibility. The guide and sniper refused to call Gage by any other name than Speaking Bull, which suited the other man just fine. They soon fell back into their easy relationship of bickering and prank-pulling, as if they had been together for years, instead of only a few months. Predictably, he asked for his rabbit's foot back. Predictably, Shadow refused to give it to him.

Captain Stanley thought for a moment about the crew he had lost aboard the _Emily Jean_. How he wished they could have been here, sharing in this with him! He thought too, about the B-17 itself. He missed her as well, and sometimes missed his old life as a bombardier. But he also realized how short his life probably would have been had things not happened as they did. His mother had been right. Everything did happen for a reason…and while you can't change the past, there are mistakes you can go back and try to make amends for. Due to some records he had requested, that was something he was going to try to do, and it was going to be one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. The first step was to write to his wife Emily and try to explain what had happened long before the two of them had ever met. Then, he would have to try to talk to Shadow… He shook his thoughts away as the ceremony continued…

General Whethers announced that the team had been formed, gave its name; which made the men smile, as it was the Mole who had named the team inadvertently, its purpose, and its chain of command. He also commended the team on their rescue of Lt. Stoker and their resounding victory over the Nazi camp. No mention was made of the unorthodox condition of the Nazi officer's body when it was found by his superiors, or of the letter of protest that was lodged with Allied Command by the Nazis that one of their officers had been scalped. After all, intel could be considered unreliable from certain quarters.

The next part of the ceremony took all the men present by surprise. General Whethers granted all the team members a raise of one rank and pay grade. This meant that officially, "Cap" was now a Major. However, his team, though they respected his new rank, would still call him "Cap," for they respected what that word meant to them even more.

Colonel Stoker formally took command of the team from General Whethers. Colonel Stoker then called Major Stanley forward. He presented him with his new rank insignia, and then had him call each of his men forward one by one, and did the same for them. This meant, of course, that as they were called by rank, Mike was next. He had elected to leave off the hated glasses, and was attempting to bluff his way through the ceremony. The scars around his eyes were fading, but were still very evident. His father, of course, knew much more than he was letting on; but he allowed his son his dignity, and was very proud of him for what he was electing to do with his life.

The Colonel would never do anything to deprive his son of this chance to regain what he had fought so hard to preserve. He had seen all the reports. He knew what his son had nearly sacrificed, though not a word about it had ever passed between them. It never would. There were some things a man simply didn't do. He pinned the new First Lieutenant's insignia onto his son's lapels with a pride unlike anything he had felt since the day Michael, his firstborn, had made his way kicking and screaming into the world. He allowed himself a small smile as salutes were exchanged between them. And his heart leapt, because he saw the twinkle in Mike's eyes. Mike had _seen_ the smile. And he felt his burden lift as he moved on to the next man in line.

Chet was given a special commission, one declaring him a Sergeant in the Army. He was not particularly happy with the designation, but considering it was the same rank he carried with his militia back home; plus it carried certain other benefits, he decided he could live with it. Besides, it gave him access to more communications equipment and codebooks, which had been the whole point behind the move. He would simply have to get used to being required to being accountable to the chain of command, and reporting his movements to Cap _before_ he made them, rather than just moving about in whatever manner he pleased.

After the ceremonies were completed, the Colonel had a few final words for them.

"You men all know what you are capable of and what awaits you out there. There are fighting men today who will live to return to their families because you will be there to see that they do. My own son is proof of that. And now he is one of you. Godspeed, gentlemen." And the old soldier turned quickly on his heel and exited the room. And just like that, the meeting was over.

As they left Headquarters, Stoker replaced his glasses with a sigh, and Shadow asked "So what happens now?"

Cap looked at the file in his hands and replied, "Funny you should ask. Any of you guys been brushing up on your French lately?"

~The End~


End file.
